Some Nights
by ms.understood
Summary: He keeps claiming he hates her hair, but every time they do this he seems to wind up clutching at it.


Disclaimer: Not mine.

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He snatches the wand right out of her hand.

His other hand comes up quickly to cover her mouth, body melting out of the shadows cleverly hiding him from her view. She is already screaming, and instead of cutting it off entirely, her cry is only muffled by his palm.

His eyes snap up to hers, his body crowding hers out of the center of the corridor and up against the nearest wall. He gets her back painfully mashed up half against a windowpane and half against the unforgiving stone wall. The ice encrusting the outside of the window begins to seep into her spine and halts her scream. She automatically shivers against him.

Grey eyes still boring into hers, the hand over her mouth slowly lowers, coming to rest cupping her shoulder. Her wand is stuffed into his pocket, and she makes a sound in her throat that is the beginning of a protest.

She is cut off again by his lips crashing down to cover her own. His mouth is hot, so hot compared to the ice against her spine –she automatically reacts again, arching into his warm body. She has little space, all of his long limbs trapping her smaller frame against the wall. She has been smaller than him since the summer before their fourth year, when he hit his growth spurt –and like this the difference between them is all the more noticeable. His knees are bent a little, neck arched down. She slips up onto her toes.

The weak moonlight falling through the window puts the world around her into monotone; with her eyes still cracked open, the reflection of the light off his hair is bright and would be fascinating at any other time.

But his hands are moving, sliding down her torso to her hips, pulling her against him. His mouth is restlessly moving against her own, opening and closing, hooking her bottom lip between his own and sucking. She can't stop the whimper that bursts out of her. This time he doesn't stop her sounds.

Her hands are moving now too, seemingly without her permission, bunching whole fistfuls of crisp white shirt into her fists at the center of his back. One of his hands is in her hair, stroking the locks she had barely managed to tame today, teasing them back into a frizzy mess. He keeps claiming he hates her hair, but every time they do this he seems to wind up clutching at it.

His other hand is rubbing small circles on the angle of her hipbone.

It is very distracting.

Her eyes finally give in and droop shut. The cold from the window is gone now, everything in her warmed and tingly. He still has them pressed half into the window nook, and when he makes this breathy little gasp into her mouth she falls sideways a little, pulling them more fully into the frame of moonlight. His palms slap onto the glass, pressing still closer to her, mouth wandering across her face now, little kisses and licks. Her lips are busy on his neck, hands still moving desperately across his back.

A cat hisses right next to them.

They freeze. "Shit," he whispers at the corner of her mouth. Their eyes open. His grey eyes do not leave hers as he slowly pulls one hand from her hair, the other from under the edge of her shirt. She hadn't even realized he had gotten it under there.

The moonlight is now reflecting the panic written across his face. His eyes leave hers, dart to the left, lock onto the shadowy form of what they both know to be Mrs. Norris as she darts down the corridor, yowling for Filch.

The cat had been three feet away and neither of them managed to notice, caught up in heat and hands and hips.

His hands are already tucking in his shirt as he turns to go, melting back into the shadows he had ambushed her from.

She watches him leave, again. He always leaves first; he always starts it first. She is still standing in the frame of the window, clothes askew, hair tangled, lips swollen. Her empty hands clench, the cold outside beginning the slow crawl back into her skin.

He is almost around the corner when she calls his name.

"Draco."

The moonlight from her window barely reaches him now, but she can still see the tense outline of his shoulders under his wrinkled school shirt as he comes to a halt. He pivots, pale eyes searching through the darkness for her dark ones again. They have never spoken during these… meetings of theirs. And she has certainly never used his first name. She is breaking more than one rule.

"My wand." His face is confused and still panicked, his legs twitching toward the corner again, needing to escape before they are found together. "It's still in your pocket, Malfoy."

"Shit," he hisses again, hand shoving into his trouser pocket and dragging out her wand. He looks down the absurd length of hallway already between them, debating. "Shit, Granger."

He breaks into a run once more, rushing at her, wand outstretched. The cat is still howling on the next floor, and now she can hear Filch grunting as he stomps after his hellcat.

Draco crashes into her again, pushing her back up against the glass. Her fingers curl around her wand naturally as he presses it into her hand, and they both have their eyes open now as his lips come down to touch her own once more. Gently this time.

His lips part, forehead pressed to hers. "Hermio-"

The cat hisses, much nearer now.

He is gone in a flash, tearing back down the corridor toward the dungeons. She hears another "Shit, Granger" echo back down the hall one more time, and then he is around the corner, out of sight again.

Filch is still coming this way though.

Hermione takes off, sprinting in the opposite direction from Malfoy, wand in hand. She is closer to her Houses' Common Room –the price Malfoy pays for preferring to corner her so close to her own domain in the castle- and within seconds she is hissing the password to the Fat Lady and stumbling through the portrait hole.

She doesn't stop running until she reaches her room, ignoring the shouted questions from various Gryffindors downstairs. It is when she falters to a stop at the edge of her bed that she realizes Malfoy has slipped a scrap of paper into her hand along with her wand.

Hands still trembling with adrenaline, she unfurls the rolled up parchment scrap and can't help the bubble of laughter that bursts out of her still swollen lips.

In Draco Malfoy's perfect, looping penmanship reads: _'Constant vigilance, Granger.'_

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A/N: Hey I just wrote this, and this website is crazy, but here's my story, so review it maybe?

Carly Rae Jepsen is my spirit animal.


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